


The Vigil

by Ariejul



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Angst, Brooding, F/M, Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 07:11:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3200168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariejul/pseuds/Ariejul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She secretly hopes that he'll die, that the poison willingly drank will do what she could not. She wants to see the light die behind his eyes. </p>
<p>When did she start to enjoy killing and death so much?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. They Meet Again

She knows she should hate him. The very moment she lays eyes upon him in that dungeon, she knows exactly who he is. They'd been childhood companions (she doesn't care if he spent most of his time with her brother while she tagged along). She had even once been able to call him friend.

Now, he speaks of wishing her dead, of her betrayal, as if he even _knows_ what the word means. Oh, she wants so very much to hate him, to kill him. To just be rid of this breathing _memento_ of a life ripped from her bloody fingers. The pain of it all had finally begun to dwindle, allowing her to move on...until his _face,_ and the wounds open anew _._ Even so, when the Seneschal asks, the Right of Conscription falls from her tongue with nary a thought behind it.

His shock mirrors hers; Andraste's knickers, why would she conscript the son of her family's _murderer_?! Regardless of his cries for death first (hadn't she once yelled that in the face of certain demise?), she is the Warden-Commander of Ferelden and can't bloody well take back what she just said. She walks away from him then, suddenly, heading to the throne room of the Vigil, leaving even Anders and Oghren behind (bless the dwarf for having the sense not to chase her).

Let one of them bring him back; she can barely stand to even _look_ at him. All she can see is Rendon Howe staring back at her, sneering from beyond the grave. She blocks the tears that threaten to fall as she watches him take his Joining atop the throne of the Arl. _The Warden-Commander must be strong._ She secretly hopes that he'll die, that the poison willingly drank will do what she could not. She wants to see the light die behind his eyes.

When did she start to enjoy killing and death so much?

But die he does not. Of course he would be strong enough to survive. _Of course._ She can barely even stand the thought of it. This...reminder of what she'd been so desperately trying to put behind her. Her dreams that night are filled with images of her father, of his life-blood spilling out on the larder floor, and her mother holding the man she loved tightly as they told her to live. As if being a Grey Warden meant anything more than death. _A Cousland always does her duty._

A scream tears from her lips as she wakes. Her brow is drenched in sweat, and she finds it hard to breathe. Even her hands seem to be tinged with blood in the moonlight. She tosses off her covers, hastily dressing, and heads for the courtyard. The night air will do her some good.

“Good evening, _Commander_.” She doesn't need to see the man behind the voice to know who it is; the venom dripping from the mention of her title says it all. Truly, the Maker must hate her...or have a very twisted sense of humor. She can't decide which.

“Nathaniel,” she replies, casting him the best glare she can manage. “You're up late...or early, I suppose.” She suppresses the urge to slap that amused look off his face as she suddenly wishes Fergus was with her. He always knew how to deal with Nathaniel when he was being so completely insufferable. Granted, Fergus would likely use a dagger in the gut to end the Howe's insufferable nature now, so it is best he remain in Highever.

She had found his insufferable behavior rather amusing when it had been directed at her brother. She can safely say she no longer feels that to be the case; she's already up to her eyeballs with detestable men...and women, for that matter. Howe's old vassals are rather an unlikable sort, she has but recently discovered. _I can't say I've missed that part of Fereldan nobility._

His stately voice brings her from her reflections. “Can't sleep,” he supplies. _Nightmares_ . Of course he doesn't say that, but she's all too aware of the dreams. Too bad there's no Archdemon to haunt his time in the Fade. She's almost sad she killed the damned thing, and by the Maker, she never thought she'd _ever_ feel that way. (She forgets that the Archdemon is now walking the land as a human child, thanks to her unflinching will to survive and a Witch's ambitions.) Of course someone as bloody irritating as Nathaniel would cause that. Just how many insufferable men would she have to deal with?

The last all but killed her.

She moves past him, towards one of the less battered dummies. “And here I thought you were merely lying in wait to ambush me.” She smirks a bit and can't help but be reminded of another who wished her dead only to be spared. Thankfully, Nathaniel doesn't seem to have such licentious tendencies as the Antivan; she isn't sure she'd be able to handle it if he did.

A slight pang echoes dully in her chest, wondering where the assassin is now. Likely back in his homeland, since Ferelden wasn't quite as thrilling as it had been only a scant half-year earlier. Zevran never did like feeling bored, and neither she nor Alistair had really had need for an assassin. Besides, he still had the Crows to take care of. The crazy bastard.

She absently wishes the assassin was here at the Keep now, considering the plot against her life perpetrated by those supposedly loyal to her. And, by the Maker, Nathaniel might still want her dead, too, for all she really knows. It makes her fingers reflexively tighten around her long bow. Not that a bow was really usable in close combat (even _if_ she was decent with it). He could be upon her before she could nock an arrow; she well knows how fast the man is despite his tall stature. Short of smacking him in the face, it would be of little use to her.

A silent curse rings in her head for leaving her daggers in her room.

“Were I so inclined, lingering outside your chambers would be far more efficient.” She notices him shrug as he leans against a nearby wall watching. He _would_ be matter-of-fact about that, wouldn't he. Though, as she recalls, he was quite truthful as her prisoner even when he had every reason to lie. Though, as she remembers, Nathaniel never cared for lying. She'd give him that, at least.

She shrugs off the hint of nervousness she feels sliding down her spine as he watches her, nocking a practice arrow soundly in her bow and launching it at the unsuspecting dummy mercilessly. The familiar rhythm lulls her into an odd sort of peace, and she forgets Nathaniel is there. All she knows is the feel of her bow, the thunk an arrow creates as it finds the mark, how easily the head slides into the hay-filled form. She gnashes her teeth, seeing the old Arl of Amaranthine's face as he passed from this world spitting and hissing. It was less than he deserved.

And just like that, she remembers his son is standing just to her left. The world crashes back around her, and she can feel those calculating eyes upon her. The urge to rip them out boils over with a ferocity that leaves her breathless. Her bow is suddenly far too heavy a weight and the released arrow sails past its target without even so much as a nick. It only fuels her rage, and she turns without a word and storms past him swiftly.

He thankfully does not question her (smart man), but she can still feel those eyes watching her. She feels rather irrationally that he is laughing at her behind those orbs. It makes her rage boil so much that she half wonders if this is what Oghren feels like while fighting.

Coming to the practice yards had been a  _terrible_ idea.

 


	2. Practice Again?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She does not tell him she did it to punish him...to bring death to him, either immediately from the Joining poison, or slowly with the taint consuming him. Heroes should be above such petty things. She is not.

The next time she ends up in the practice yard a few weeks later, he is there, casually watching, as if he hadn't moved since the last time she'd been there. She frowns at him, and the gesture is returned as she grabs some practice arrows. She nocks one in her bow, watching it slide smoothly into the hay form as she releases it.

“Good evening, Commander.” His voice is languid, uninterested. His arms are crossed, leaning against the wall. His voice doesn't hold quite as much venom, or perhaps she is imagining it. She glances his way as she releases another arrow. It hits the target's wooden core with a heavy thunk.

“Nathaniel. Do you make a habit of lurking in the practice yards?” Another arrow finds it mark. She finds herself enjoying the finality the sound carries with it. Battle has, ironically, always had a calming effect on her. Things are clearer; there is less gray. It is refreshing.

He breaths a soft chuckle. “How else will I get to watch the Commander's breathtaking displays of aggression against the practice dummies?” His calculating eyes watch her, unreadable in the dying light. She dislikes it.

She narrows her eyes at him, turning back to release another arrow. It hits with such force, the dummy's head flies off. “Do you not see enough of it on our treks into the wilderness?” She sighs heavily, sitting her bow down and retrieving the severed head. She suspects the Seneschal will be unhappy with her destruction of another dummy in only a few weeks time.

“My attention is generally on our foe, Commander. Darkspawn do not give much allowance for observation of one's allies.”

She half expects him to be smirking when she looks at him, but he isn't. He is frowning, apparently in thought. He seems to be all but ignoring her now. “Are we friends, then? Joking and laughing like the years behind us mean nothing?” she asks. It is a bitter thing to say, but she cares not. She looks down at her hands and can't help but see red washing over them, even if it is a play of the dying light. They curl into fists at her side. “Have you forgiven me? Or is this just some game to amuse you?”

He scoffs, but ignores what she said. Apparently he has decided civility better than thinly veiled hostility. A part of her is glad. She is tired of playing such exhausting games. “Your form is much improved.”

 _Since I left_ is what he doesn't say.

She frowns, twirling a strand of hair before sweeping it behind her ear, an old habit from childhood. A part of her wishes almost a decade didn't stand between them. _A decade and a ruined name._ She had called him friend once. Perhaps more, had he not been promised for squiring in the Free Marches. He was one of the few who didn't care that she was a Teyrn's daughter, or just as dangerous as any man. He had seen _her_ , not just the title and influence her blood carried.

“A Blight is good practice.”

Try as she might, she hasn't forgotten that he was the one who started her on the path of bow training. She allows a moment to wander in the past, to a time before her blood heard the song of an Archdemon and she placed a King on the throne. The feel of his arms around her, showing her how to pull back the bowstring, aiming...the slow exhalation of breath against her cheek as the arrow is released. The thunk as it hits the target. She shakes away the thoughts, suppressing the urge to blush like a fawning child. She mustn't forget how dangerous this man is. The past is nothing more than a pleasant memory, a dream all but forgotten.

He grunts absently, watching her with his hawkish eyes. It strikes her that he has never been afraid of her, even when she held his life in her hands. Perhaps he believed he could overpower her, or maybe he simply did not care. She wonders if he is testing her, gauging her response before truly testing the limits of her goodwill. His next words startle her. “Why would you recruit me? It is clear you do not care for me, and I certainly didn't ask for this.”

She crinkles her brows together, unsure of what to say. Why _had_ she recruited him? He hates her, and all she can see when she looks at him is his father's sneering face as he gleefully recanted his torture of her mother at the end of her life. Her fist tightens at the thought of her mother grovelling at the feet of that bastard. She tries to tell herself that Rendon Howe was liar and likely only trying to provoke her.

It is not as comforting as she hoped.

She leans against the half wall surrounding the line of dummies. She meets his eyes. “It is obvious that you are skilled, as it took four Wardens more seasoned than I to subdue you. Why would I, a Commander lacking troops with skill, pass one by? If you hadn't noticed, Ferelden is sorely in need of Wardens. Part of the reason the Blight went so far as it did and was so perilous is the distinct lack of them. My personal feelings on the matter mean little in the face of that.” She does not tell him she did it to punish him...to bring death to him, either immediately from the Joining poison, or slowly with the taint consuming him. Heroes should be above such petty things. She is not.

“You are a perplexing woman.” He shakes his head, standing up straight. He brushes off his leathers, appearing preoccupied.

“As I recall, that is not the first time you've said as much.” She watches him. There is power hidden in those movements. She has little doubt that he is one of her strongest Wardens. She does not regret her decision to conscript him, even if others under her care happen to disagree. Some rather vocally.

He frowns at her. It is almost a sneer. “Dragging up the past doesn't do either of us any good, Commander. It is behind us for good reason.” He walks down the stairs and off into the darkened courtyard of the Vigil. Anja closes her eyes and slides down to the wooden floor. She had forgotten how exhausting talking to Nathaniel could be even at the best of times. And now was certainly not the best.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might be taking a few liberties with the layout of Vigil's Keep. In my head, the place is massive, with hidden places and parts that have been forgotten and sorely in need of repair. 
> 
> My Cousland is incredibly bitter and really has no idea how to cope with it, so she destroys practice dummies with arrows and shoves all her feelings down. Nathaniel just likes lurking. I get the feeling he's pretty bitter, too. There will eventually be other people in this fic, I swear. Hopefully, no one seems too out of character. 
> 
> Nathaniel is totally one of my favorite Dragon Age characters.

**Author's Note:**

> The relationship between Nathaniel and the youngest Cousland eats at my soul. I just don't see with how close the families were that they didn't know each other. It's impossible, I tell you!


End file.
